PussycatMagazine

Why I had an abortion

A true story by Guata Girl

I was 26, living in Seattle with a musician. Sounds like fun, right? Like a little indie-girl dream. And it was, in a way-- complete with tiny, funky apartment downtown, near all the too-cool-for-you bars where the bartenders knew us by name. I would read in the bedroom while he gave classical-guitar lessons in the "living" room (really, it was just the "other" room). We smoked loads of pot and watched amazing films from the '70s like The Deer Hunter and The Shining. He was smart and pretentious and my friends hated him, so I saw less and less of them. We fought constantly --he was a double Scorpio, after all, and I'm a triple Aquarius-- and, therefore, had lots and lots and LOTS of exciting makeup sex.

Without a condom.

What? We pulled out. It was all good. It was, really. Until he didn't make it out in time-- but he was pretty sure he had. I'd been using the pull-out method for years, so I let it go. And go it did. That little swimmer went and went, all the way to the Mothership Connection and then one day, Aunt Flo --who'd made a faithful, punctual house call every twenty-eight days without fail since I was nine-- didn't show. I knew immediately.

I was poor. So was he. He was mercurial, diffident, prone to delusions of grandeur, and frequently downright mean to me (I apparently smacked him in the eye in my sleep once, which I don't remember but for which he never forgave me). I didn't want to have his baby, but I wanted to be loved. I figured we'd work it out together, make our decision as a couple...whatever happened, I felt certain my new vulnerability would bring out the best in him. I thought, "If nothing else, he'll hold me in his arms and tell me he'll love and support me no matter what I decide." (Never mind that we had yet to even utter the "L" word.)

We watched the little strip turn blue, and after a moment's silence, he said, "So I'll help you get rid of it.

"There wasn't any question on his part, for one second, about what I might want, and that sealed the deal. I decided to go home to California, to the loving arms of my mom, for the procedure: I figured, if I was going to do something so potentially traumatic, I'd rather be where I knew I was unconditionally loved. Where it was at least sunny, and I could go to the beach for self-therapy. I invited him to come along; he refused, citing work conflicts (he was self-employed). Rather, to my utter shock and consternation, he actually took this decision of mine as a personal affront! You see, by leaving, I was depriving him of the opportunity to "be there for me" while I enacted one of the most painful, confusing decisions a young woman can make. His unbelievable self-centeredness overwhelmed me, engulfed me like a wave, and I rode it all the way home to Cali.

By then I was several weeks along, and I looked beautiful-- my skin glowed and hair shone, and incredibly, in spite of the emotional turmoil I was experiencing, I felt great. Pregnancy agreed with me. When my mom saw my swollen breasts, magnified nipples and thickening waistline, she started to cry-- but stopped herself. She hated him, too.

After falsifying a local address in order to qualify for MediCal, I went to the nicest Planned Parenthood in our area. They lubed up something that looked like big white plastic dildo and stuck it deep inside,taking an ultrasound to determine the --gulp!-- age of the fetus. They wanted me to look at the screen but I refused to look. Based on the size of the speck, they told me I was five weeks along... too early for either a medical or surgical abortion. I would have to wait another week --let it grow some more!-- before anything could be done with guaranteed results.

I was horrified at the prospect of letting something grow so that I could kill it easier. Like I said, I was finding the physical experience of pregnancy quite enjoyable (to the extent that I could allow myself to experience it as such, anyway), and the thought of prolonging the experience made me wonder if I would lose out to biology and be compelled by Mother Nature to change my mind.

Meanwhile, as I sat at home mulling these things over, I called the voicemail I shared with the musician to, well, check my messages. I was (and am) an actor by trade, and these were the days before we all had cell phones. I hadn't told my agent I would be out-of-town, much less why, and I feared the worst: an audition.

Once again, I was shocked by my insignificant other's actions: he had changed the password so that I would be unable to check messages.

His logic was staggering: he felt "violated" (we lived together!), his privacy compromised. Dumbfounded, I considered the incredible, perverse irony of my situation: I was given one course of acceptable action by the babydaddy, with no other alternatives even open to discussion, and when I made the choice to exercise this option, albeit elsewhere (where I would receive the best care)-- I was punished for not "including" him! Him! My mind reeled; all he could think about, as I was being probed with space-age dildoes while a collection of cells rapidly becoming a love child multiplied within me and my ex-Catholic self waited for a lightning bolt to strike, was himself. My mother paced the hallway, drinking white wine and calling him every nasty word in Spanish ever invented.

And then, in that moment, the lightning struck-- my abdomen. I doubled over in the worst monstrous incarnation of a menstrual cramp imaginable. I was miscarrying. My mom began to cry, and this time she didn't stop herself. I did, too... tears of gratitude. The decision had been made for me. I went back to PP just to make sure, and they confirmed it: spontaneous abortion (which I've since thought would make a good name for a particularly hard-core and un-PC ladies punk band). They seemed unsurprised at the clinic; and even rather pleased for me, which made me secretly wonder if they hadn't mercifully done something to induce it. (I baked and sent them cookies just in case.)

I bled profusely and cramped horribly for two more days, durinng which my body miraculously returned to its pre-preggers condition. My mom and I stared in wonder at the mirror, unable to believe the speed with which my body had restored itself. We then did what any two women would have done in our situation: hit the thrift stores!

I didn't tell the musician right away; I told him the day after it began. By then, he had restored my voicemail access in an act of contrition. When I got back to Seattle, and packed my things to move into my own studio across town, he told me of a dream he'd had, a dream from which he'd awoken with tears on his pillow: he had found an infant girl by a riverbank, a newborn with black hair and eyes, like mine. I still don't know how I feel about that.

I'm 33 now, and actually had a medical abortion a year after that happened (that time I got pregnant using BOTH a condom and a diaphragm with spermicide). Somehow, the experience I detailed above, of that reprieve my 26th summer, stands out much more strongly in my heart and mind than the "real thing" I was to experience a year later. •

Night of the plastic zombie penis

By Ms Foxy P

The other day, I opened my email inbox and found a bundle of SPAM. Usually, I just delete them and go on my merry way, but this message caught my attention:

"Mementos: Just as there is now a company that will take a deceased person's cremated ashes and make a diamond for a keepsake by your surviving spouse, WE can take your penis, testicles and scrotum, and preserve them using a new high-tech method called "Plastination".

The end result? Upon your death, your "Family Jewels" need not go to waste! They can be preserved, kept and enjoyed indefinately by your significant- other.And, wouldn't you really rather that your surviving Significant-Other have the most meaningful and personal keepsake you can offer? Much more meaningful than a common urn of ashes, flag from an interrment service, even jewelry, etc.

The penis, testicles and scrotum which the two of you have had so much fun enjoying together - should be the most meaningful keepsake you can leave behind.My company, INTIMATE MEMENTOS, will preserve your entire "package" - skin, meat inside, everything - either erect or soft. Just the way you want to be remembered! The final Memento is non-toxic, can be safely handled, examined and displayed."

Um, hello? Did that just advertise what I think it did? Apparently, Bob thinks there is a market for widows who want to keep their late spouse’s weenie as a post-mortem dildo. Night of the living dead penis. It'll stalk you, moaning, in the middle of the night, gently thumping on your bedside table, looking for some fun- "meat" and all.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. But a few short emails later, and I realized these people were serious. They will take your dead man’s penis, fill it with plastic and give it back to you. The company spokesman, we’ll call him Bob, thinks this is " a great, loving, and a sentimental keepsake, for women who love their man and want to remember all the joy and pleasure they shared…"

Um yeah…

So I prodded him a little more. Don't you think it's a little bit unhealthy to want to keep a dead person's body part around the house?

Bob replied, "If you're not ashamed of your man, his manly parts, or his love - you
shouldn't be ashamed of wanting to keep a very personal and unique memento of him. Even if is is different! If you loved him (or wanted to own and posess him)
in life, you can keep a very meaningful and intimate personal keepsake that was truly him after he's gone."

Well, well, Bob. I suppose if there are people willing to cryogenically freeze their heads or stuff a beloved pet and keep them around the house as an accessory, then there must be a woman out there who wants her man's weenie dipped in plastic and proudly displayed on the mantel. But for me, I can honestly say I would not want a dead-husband weenie pop. Having my man’s dick hanging around a drawer in my bedroom would not evoke positive, happy memories. Not to be judgmental, but come on. I think these guys are a bit misguided. It isn’t the dick we’re going to miss, it’s the man. Dicks are a dime a dozen.

Playing "mommy", an adult baby tale

By Ms. LA Fussy

If you’re anything like me, then you’re pretty good at being a bitch, and pretty good at being bossy. Tie that in with a taste for a spicy sex life and you too can be a closet dominatrix. I wish I had the courage to do it for a living, but the great money just doesn’t seem worth stepping on some hairy old pervert’s saggy balls.

Enter the baby fetish. It only happened once, but boy did it leave an indelible mark and make for years of stories! My then boyfriend, now husband and I were enjoying a fantastic sex life even though we were 2 hours apart and I lived with my mom. It really started out innocently enough when I grabbed his long, corkscrew hair into pigtails and exclaimed "You look like a Kathy!" He was so darn cute in those pigtails I wanted to squeeze the poo right out of him! I smeared lipstick all over his mouth airline-style and paraded him in front of my mom. (She goes along with anything) and we all laughed hysterically.

The ideas rolled in: he was so cute, I wanted control of this huge hairy baby. I arranged for my mom to be out for the night and headed for the baby section at the grocery store. First, I picked up some Jell-o chocolate pudding and butterscotch topping, then gathered baby wipes, a Mickey Mouse bib with crumb-catcher, pacifier, adult diapers and Baby Kathy’s personalized baby bottle.

I had already mentally morphed my man into some twisted, sexy, half man-half girl adult baby—now it was time to play. Imagine his excitement when I ordered him to strip and I tied him to the bed in a candlelit love lair! Dressed in pigtails, a diaper and one lacy bobby sock for that extra touch, I shoved the "passey" in his mouth and promised I’d be back soon. (Enter third person speak) Oops!

"Mommy" squirted Baby Kathy’s erect nipples with juice (because we all know babies love juice) and had to suck it off! Oops! Baby Kathy made chocolate pudding poop (with the help of Mommy’s hand) all in her dipey and it was so messy it had to be licked out of everywhere. Everywhere! Boy were Kathy’s legs heavy when Mommy had to lift them to wipe her clean. Mommy wanted to finish cleaning the poop off baby’s teeter with her mouth, but things were just getting too silly and she was starting to pee on herself from laughing so much. What was so funny about a dipey change, Mommy?

I’ll tell you why. It was funny because it was SICK! But only if you look at it the wrong way—otherwise it was a twisted fantasy between two adults in the privacy of home. Really kinky, somewhat erotic playing dress-up gone haywire. Can I get arrested for writing this? I don’t know why we haven’t played it since. Maybe because 7 years down the road I’m dominating in many other ways.

The Red Scare

My first period, by Ms. Marie

The buzz in Sister Lucille’s sixth grade class was that Laurie started her period next door, in the middle of Ms. Crowley’s lecture on the Middle Ages—and she was wearing a white skirt. I felt warm, scared, terrified. I hadn’t had my first period yet, and what if it happened to me, like that, in front of everyone? I will die. This really is the curse. I don’t ever want it to happen to me.

A year earlier, Mrs. Manuel herded the girls into her classroom and sent the boys across the hall. An hour later, I emerged, white as a ghost, with a sick twist in my stomach. Why is this happening? Why did I have to be a girl? I wish I were a boy.

The school nurse told us that we would bleed—while we were playing tag at the park, that we would get cramps, and that it would happen every month. She showed us an anatomy chart and that was it. I had the red scare. Lurking around the corner was blood and uncontrollable pain that would haunt me for one week of every 28 days for the rest of my adult life.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t understand. At 10 years old, I didn’t fully know what having a period was all about. And, growing up Catholic and in the Midwest didn’t help. My teachers and grandma called it "The Curse." How could I look forward to something with a name like that? Years later, as a freshman in high school, my overweight male-virgin religion teacher would say that women were murderers because they killed an egg every month. The torment never seemed to stop.

I raised my hand, timidly. "Does it only happen when you go to the bathroom or do you bleed all the time?" I thought it might just come out when you pee. "No, it’s all the time," the nurse answered. "Even when you are sleeping?" "Yes," she says. My palms began to sweat. While I’m sleeping?

By the end of the year, several other girls had met Laurie’s fate, running out of class or off of the playground—all of them crying, flushed— a faint rust-red ooze seeping through their plaid skirts. I made it through the year with nothing except more fear. Please god, let it not happen to me, and if it does not at school and not ever while I’m sleeping. Every night I would say that, begging God to spare me further embarrassment and an even lower social status than my home haircuts and second-hand clothes had given me.

In July my mom took me to get a bra, and I resisted, hiding in the racks at JCPenney trying to deny that I was growing up, that it would soon happen to me. She tried to give me "The Talk" that night. She held a tampon and a maxi pad in her hand, valiantly trying to explain that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, that this kind of bleeding was good. I didn't want to hear any of it.

The day after I got home from 4-H camp it happened. I had to pee. I pulled down my panties and there it was— the ooze, thick and more brown than red, soaking through to my shorts. Terrified, I ran into the bedroom I shared with my sister and I looked at her. This was the only time in our adolescent lives that she hung up the phone to pay attention to me. I hadn’t said anything, but she knew.

"Oh my God. MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM," she yelled. Mom’s head popped through the door a minute later, and she too knew without me saying anything. She started to cry and I didn’t understand. I’m the one that’s bleeding. I’m the one that has the curse. I’m the one who has to deal with this punishment that will ruin my life. Why are you crying? My life is ruined!

I didn't know then that there would be times when I would fall down on my knees and pray that I bled, welcoming the familiar quiver of my insides. "My baby's all grown up," my mom said with tears welling in her eyes, knowing that this was only the beginning of the journey.

Why every girl should love a Geek

Geeks are Sexy: Why Every Girl Should Love a Nerd
by Denise T.

For years, I wasted my time with rock and roll boys. Then I discovered nerds. Yep, those geeky boys with the big brains and the mismatched clothes. The guys who live for all things smart, have engineering and science degrees from colleges I would struggle to even get in to.

Nerds are sexy. Now I'm talking about action nerd-- not the ones that just sit around cataloging Yoda toys or playing Dungeons and Dragons (well...)-- the really smart unassuming boys who likes to surf or do kung-fu on the weekends.

When my nerd came along, I realized I had been wasting my time with all other boys. Finally, this boy could hold a conversation, wasn't intimidated by my college education and big vocabulary. He had a job so good he could foot the bill for dinner too.

So why do you need a nerd too?

1. He'll treat you right. Nerds are often overlooked by foxy ladies, so when they get one, they know how good they've got it. He'll never not call or toss you aside for the next fine thing that comes along.

2. You'll never take second fiddle to his band, and he won't cheat on you while he's out on the road. I'm not saying all bad boys make bad boyfriends, but ladies let's be honest. How many actually are really keepers?

3. You'll be hitching your horse to the right carriage. Nerds make great companions because they stimulate the mind as well as the body.

4. You can dress him and he won't get mad. Yep, what lady doesn't like to dress her man? Nerds won't complain, they can use the help. Mine didn't say word one when I threw out his ugly green blazer and replaced it with something foxy.

So I married him. All those years of chasing the dumb boy in the pretty package are over. The smart ones are where it's at.

Caught red-handed...

 

by the lovely MS. Emma.

My boyfriend has an obsession. He likes all the hot young starlets in Hollywood.  He used to do this thing with blank tapes. He would record the shows they were on, clips of them on Entertainment Tonight or MTV. Then, when no one was around, he would put the tapes on pause and... well, you get the idea.
 
One day I caught him in the act. I went to go take a nap. I was in the bedroom for two minutes when I decided I wasn't tired. I got up. I walked to the living room, and there he was. Jerking off to that tape of Brooke Burke. Or was it an Anna Kornikova tennis match. I don't remember. Whatever. But I was so surprised, I ran back into our bedroom and locked the door. For some reason it made me scared. Good thing I can look back and laugh about it now.
 
How could I have been so naive to think that he was only waxing the carrot to thoughts of a nude me?
 
Anyway, I bet you're wondering where I'm going with this....
 
After that incident, I was pretty upset. How could he not always think of me while doing that? For a long time, I couldn't handle that thought. Until one night, I was sitting home alone, watching 'Desperado' on DVD. During the really steamy part (if you've seen the movie, you know which one I mean!), I started to get a little hot and bothered. I mean, Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek? Come on! Who wouldn't get turned on my just looking at those two together. So, knowing I was alone, I paused the DVD, and had a little fun of my own. Little did I know my boyfriend had come home early....
 
After getting caught myself, I finally understood why he did that. So that nite, we decided to each make a list. It was a list of the 10 famous people we could have if the chance came along. But mostly it was a 10 famous people we could jerk off to.
 
Now this is the part where I get to my Hollywood obsessions. Yes, I have ten of them.  A lot of them change every so often, but there are always a few who stay the same.
 
My boyfriend picked all not very well known women, while I picked mostly high profile hunks and babes.
 
Now these are in no particular order, as I would never be able to pick a definite number one. All of these people get me all hot and bothered.
 
I have to start out with the hottest men in Hollywood and beyond. The men who are on almost every women's lists, such as Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and Antonio Banderas. Then comes the 'it right now' guys, like Orlando Bloom, Clay Aiken and Adam Brody. So right there is 6. Four more. Bryan White and Tyler Florence top off the guys list. There's 8. For the last two, I have to pick two very beautiful women. Both classic beauties. Very stylish, and both very talented. The last two on my list are Catherine Zeta Jones and Gwen Stefani.
 
Now, you may not think making a list is an obsession, but there's more. First, on my computer, is a folder containing pictures I've gotten online of all the people on my list, in case I need some eye candy. I have pictures of them up on our refrigerator, I set out to collect all their various DVDs, books, CDs, and try to Tivo all of the shows they might be on.  Sometimes I'm lucky enough to get a double whammy, like two actors in the same movie, like Interview With the Vampire (Pitt and Banderas), Pirates of the Caribbean (Depp and Bloom) and Once Upon a Time in Mexico (Banderas and Depp). That's like heaven for me.
 
I think I need to go now... 'Desperado' is calling my name

My dirty panties pay my electric bill

Selling my dirty underwear pays my electric bill
by Ms Glittergirl, of CodeRedHead.net

My panties pay my electric bill – and the gas bill – and the mortgage, and then some! So what’s this all about? How did it happen?

I am a gal that was completely loyal to Ebay until May 2002. I sold everything from clothing out of my closet, to trinkets and collectibles from mom’s house. Then I entered the world of the "Mature Audience." I listed a pair of patent leather Mary-Jane shoes, and an interested party emailed me and told me about a fetish auction web site, called Ebanned.net. He suggested it because he thought I could make some good cash that way. He was correct, and the rest is history. Actually it’s a way of living now!

It took one visit to Ebanned.net. I was enthralled and instantly decided I would give it a whirl. It's an auction web site where men and women sell fetish items: Mostly used panties, but everything from amateur videos and CDs to sex toys and scat in Tupperware! At first, my involvement in this venture was purely for its entertainment value. I was just playing around, having fun at it and if I sold anything, well it was just extra cash to play with. I kind of just liked the funny pictures guys would send me of them wearing my underwear.

Then in June, I lost my job. The funds of unemployment were simply not enough to survive on. And I do mean survive – no shopping trips on a whim any longer! Suddenly, the panty biz took on a whole new meaning. Fun became a necessity.

What exactly does selling panties mean? Well, we aren’t talking new off the rack by any means. The panty biz entails "preparing" panties for delivery to buyers. It boils down to some guy muddling through myriads of auctions, looking at pictures of all kinds of girlies – be it pleasantly plump, near anorexic, blonde, brunette, and everything in between - displaying their particular panty. When he sees what he likes, he places his bid.

If he’s lucky enough to win, his uber-sexy girl will wear his panties long enough to let her sweet girlie fragrances soak into them, and then send them to him in a plastic Ziploc bag—to seal in the freshness. Yes, you can make over $100 on a pair of panties you forked out a mere $5 for. I think the attraction is who’s in them and perhaps, the personality behind them.

So back to the necessity of the matter. After having lost my job in June, I stepped it up a notch in the panty biz arena. More auctions, better quality goodies, better pictures, more flagrant and fun language for my listings. It’s been good. The funds coming in far surpass what you can sell used clothing for at Ebay. (Ebay does not allow selling of used panties any longer!) Without Ebanned.net, I would have had to hit up the parents, and probably the sister and her hubby for money just to get by – something that doesn’t sit well with me and that I have never had to do before. I hate owing people money! Panties have allowed me to keep the lights on, the roof over my head, and the car in the driveway. My new auction "home" is much more profitable, very open, and it’s a true community with great people who develop lasting relationships. And guess what, even though its something I have to do right now…I am having more fun than I ever thought possible and met more intelligent and sexy people than I could ever have hoped for. So, when I do land that dream job, I am not quitting!

editor's note: selling panties is going so well for Glitter girl, that she has started her own adult Web site and is close to being able to quit her day job! You go girl!